Calypso knows death. She knows, too, the fragility of life. The many lives that had been saved (and lost) beneath her paws was a testament to that. She had seen suffering and loss and was not so foolish to think that she was not breakable. Like any that lived and breathed her blood could spill — even she could not stave off death when he was determined to take.

It is the delicate nature of life that makes it worth living. Without the knowledge that death would come knocking could they appreciate it fully? If life did not end it would be… boring. For all the small joys and passions found in the day to day it would be tedious without the ever present threat of death.

Certainly it is why she has found pleasure in the rush of battle — it reminds her that she can bleed, that she can die, and that she is alive.

To the sea, then, for he beckons and she follows. She always follows. Silence is her partner as she fell in to stride beside him, aware of the seriousness brewing in this moment. There was more to be said and she easily reverts to the Calypso he knows — patient and level headed.

Black water sucks at her legs and the tensions slides from her body to be drowned beneath the waves. A slight sting is the only reminder of the marks on her flesh (and she knows that is a topic for another day) but she only grits her teeth and pushes deeper. It rises to her chest and she braces against the ebb and flow as grey-blue eyes turn to the horizon. She would give him this much, at least.

“I’m listening.” Two words spoken in little more than a whisper, encouraging without pushing. When he was ready, then.

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

Truthfully, it's a conversation Calhoun could have gone his entire life without having. It is not @Calypso's burden to bear, but she has burdened herself with the weight of who he is, and perhaps it is time that she understands the gravity of such a monumental task. Still, for a long while, he is quiet; his ears twist back against his skull and his brows knit together, hard eyes focused on the crashing waves. The elephant in the room grows larger, until it is suffocating and he wants to flee once more. The water is the only thing that grounds him, the salt stinging his nose in a bitter reminder of how it all began. He has always known the sea -- it is the one constant even despite being ever-changing; in any place, any world, he would be able to find it. He cannot say the same for all the faces he will never see again. A low, snorting sigh expels from his nostrils, and for a moment, the dragon's eyes close, steeling himself. "The men and women ye sent out to sea... some of them were more than crewmates." His lips purse, and beneath the turmoil of the ocean, his claws grind into gritty sand, jamming it into his heels to distract from the welling of anger and pain that creeps up his spine. "Roarke entrusted me with his wife and children's safety while he was looking for... this place." It hadn't really mattered where the end result of a home was, they had just been looking for somewhere suitable to host the expanding crew. And then it had shrunk. "I failed to protect them." In the moments where he has told Calypso that he failed all of them, he means so much more than just those are gone, or those they had freed from shackles. Even now, even here, he has failed to keep the promise he made to his brother. To himself. But it doesn't end there, and the weight of his own loss his heavier and more bitter still. "And I failed to protect my own wife, and the children we will never meet." Calhoun's voice grows quiet, distant, as if he is watching everything happen from the outside, no longer part of himself. Not once has he looked away from the rolling waves. The full truth is not a weight off his shoulders, but a wet and heavy blanket that suffocates him; he is not good at being vulnerable, and his very skin shivers from the discomfort of it all. Aegea had been the love of his life, an enigma like nothing else Calhoun had ever known -- unforgettable. And still he holds one card close to his heart that he has no intention of sharing: it terrifies him how much Calypso reminds him of her.

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There is a moment of quiet. It is peaceful here despite the rush of ocean water and the sounds of it crashing on the shore — or perhaps it is because of it. The ocean sang its own lullaby to those that listened for it; for her it had been the one constant through her three short years. No matter where she lived there had always been the sea, and the times she had travelled inland her very skin had itched with the wrongness of being away from the salt air.

The moment that stretched was not so peaceful, though, but fraught with a new kind of tension. Calypso sensed that they were on the precipice of change; once these words were spoken they would never be able to return to the before. Her heart ached at the thought and she almost spoke up to stop him, to keep the skeletons locked in their closets, to leave the secrets unshared.

But how could she ever wish for more if they could not get through this?

He begins slowly, grief and anger heavy in his voice and she knows how much it stems from blame. Blame is the black eyed monster that lives permanently on his shoulder, screeching constant reminders of his perceived failures. Blame is so loud that he cannot hear Forgiveness, who whispers of peace and acceptance in all the actions of his friends and family.

Blame is a vicious beast who walks hand in hand with Guilt.

She wants to shout at him to just listen to Forgiveness, but Calypso knows how little good that would do. Wallowing would be no better for him, but perhaps this bit of sharing would quiet the too-loud Blame for a little.

His brother had forgiven him, clearly, so it stood to reason that time would give @Calhoun the acceptance he needed to thrive again.

But then the true bomb is dropped.

It feels like she is choking, for suddenly her breath catches in her throat and she is a whirlwind of emotion and sensation. A thousand urges threaten to tear her limb from limb — touch him, comfort him, pity him, placate him, love him — and there is a too-long moment in the wake of his revelation. Until finally a quiet statement nearly lost in the ocean melody - “it will never happen again.”

Fierce determination rises and sets a fire in her eyes as she tears her gaze from the horizon and rests it on his face. “I swear to you, I will never let it happen again.” They were foolish words, small and pathetic in the face of his truth, but she meant them with every fibre of her being. If it ever came down to it, I’d he ever found himself in such a situation again, Calypso would give her life to protect him from that level of loss. She would lay down her life for his happiness.

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

He never expected judgement from her -- it is, in fact, @Calypso's pity that he fears. It's easier when she looks upon him with anger instead of sadness; easier when she demands, when she challenges him, when she allows him to create a buffer and keep her at arms' length. It's not fair to her, truthfully, but Calhoun has never made a single attempt of trying to promise her anything. Despite how the version of the man who existed before he met her would have pursued, flirted -- made her his in any way he could have. Now, that mere inkling terrifies him, and he runs from it at every available opportunity, stomping it down, pretending it doesn't exist. He can feel it, even now, as the weight of his truth lays quietly between them. He can feel the gravity of their pull, of her inclination to lean closer, and his inclination to allow her to. The longer the quiet goes on, the stronger the feeling gets, until he is tempted to drive another wedge between them and flee entirely. He's gotten quite good at that -- running, when he used to face any demon head-on. His heart thunders, rushing in his ears -- the waves crash over the sound, and it is only with a vague dullness that he hears her the first time, pulling her up from the undertow so that when her promise comes again, it is with clarity. There is a strangled sort of noise in his throat, paired with a bitter snort; she means well, he knows this. She always does. But still -- "you can't promise that." Calhoun doesn't meet her gaze. He cannot bear to, and so his gaze stays sternly on the horizon, and his jaw sets in a hard line. And foolish girl, doesn't she know that her own loss of life would rend him open once again? Make him unrecognizable from whoever it was that he used to be? Much as there is his refusal to put words to it, to acknowledge it, Calypso is something integral -- a piece of the puzzle that found him when he needed it most. She has both the power to stitch the pieces back together and to rip them irreparably apart.

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It might as well be a stake to her heart.

The way he scoffed - dismissive - wounds her, though she does not so much as bat an eye. Pain kicked up in the wake of that small snort and the words that followed and she takes a slow breath. How could she consider Blame when he was so burdened by Guilt.

A quiet sigh, instead, as she looked back to the horizon and gave him what little space she could. At the very least she freed him from the weight of her gaze (and she would not admit even to herself that it hurt to look at him and see the shuttered clench of his jaw). Closed to her even now, even after all this time.

“No, I can’t.” Much as she would lay down her life to prevent him that pain she is realistic enough to recognize the world was often cruel. It was not what she had meant, though, and after a pause she begun again.

This time her eyes do not move from the sea, it’s gentle ebb and flow a balm for the raggedness of this moment. “I cen only promise ye my life to prevent it, were it to come to d’at.” She does not think of what it would do to him to lose her — Calypso does not know the true extent of the impact she has had.

There were a million things more to say, a thousand words left unsaid, but she allowed the ocean lullaby to fill the space again.

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

She drifts away again, the heat of her stare falling away from where it had been burning a hole in his cheek. Calhoun withholds a sigh of relief -- cruel though the consideration may be. He does not expect her to understand; she can try as much as she likes, she can sympathize, she can imagine, but the reality is that Roarke is the only one who can feel the same ache he feels. The same emptiness. If he had been at the challenge for Firnen to see his brother's strangled fleeing of Cupid, he would have understood. It's the same feeling that drives him away from @Calypso, even now. Even after all this time. And there she goes with her promises again, ones he doesn't want, ones he doesn't appreciate. Promises that will not allow him to drive away and back into the rainforest; they demand answers from him, even if she doesn't know it when the words slip free from her lips. He would be damned to let her fall in the same way as Aegea, as Yseult -- and him powerless to stop it. An anger wells in him, laced through with frustration -- not the sort of dangerous brewing when they had fought in the cay. He wants desperately for Calypso to understand, but Calhoun can't even begin to explain himself; no words do any justice to the weight that burdens him. His heart is thundering again. It is much without thought that his scarred muzzle turns towards her, narrowed eyes settling upon her face and demanding her full focus with proximity alone. "How could you think I would want that?" he challenges quietly, taking slow and meticulous breaths to maintain his composure. Now that he's so close, he wants nothing more than to create a divide again, to shy away from the hairs rising along his spine, but stubbornness holds him fast.

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Calypso cannot help but remember that fateful night that left her scared - but not the after, the before. Before the blood and chaos when the smallest crack appeared in his stony facade, when she believed for a breath that she had begun to break down the walls. It had not been love or lust she sought but only trust and friendship. That night she had seen it.

If only there had been no after.

Many nights had passed with her wondering what difference it would have made. If that particular night had had no after, what would have changed? Certainly he had built a wall between them and they had reverted to captain and crewmate in the aftermath.

Only fools dwell on the what if.

He looks to her (she can feel the burn) and challenges her. A long moment passes where she does not meet his gaze. The pull is immense and his words loop endlessly through her mind, but she is nothing if not stubborn and she does not look at him until she sorts through her emotions and slides them carefully behind her own mask. Too often she was vulnerable around him, too often she was exposed.

Now when she looks to him her gaze is steady with the slightest hint of a challenge. “I don’t know what ye want.” A simply retort chased by the barest quirk of a brow, a silent well clear as day in the expression. Even in a moment so fraught with tension she feels the pull and it is all she can do to resist it.

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

Water rushes over his legs and swiftly whooshes back out, sinking his paws further into the sand with each pass of the waves; silt climbs up his paws, and salt clings to the damp tresses of his mane. He could almost pretend he is home again, on that stony shore with the world to take by storm at his feet. Ironic, when you think about it, how the storm instead had come for Calhoun Galloway, and left only fractions of his self behind. If only he could figure out where the hurricane had strewn the pieces, maybe he could find himself again. His frustration mounts in the silence, in the way she composes before she reacts -- and why is it that when he goads the fire from her, she will not give it to him? Fool that he is, he would rather be licked by the flames than face the stony composure. A part of him that is selfish and small screams that it's unfair she is able to wear a mask when she has made his falter. When @Calypso finally turns to meet his burning gaze, he lingers only inches from her face, his breath catching in his throat. She says she doesn't know, and truthfully, neither does Calhoun. He cannot even begin to play at what might soothe the constant storm, what might heal the ache before it devours him whole. He exhales after a long moment, a heated expulsion against her muzzle that offers a stark contrast to the bitter cold of the waves. "Not that," he murmurs, his voice a bit strangled with the admittance. It's a half answer, a poor response when she deserves more -- but he has nothing more to offer. Calhoun doesn't have answers, and it isn't for lack of searching for them. They simply do not come. What he does know, with a certainty that convicts him, is that he does not wish Calypso's death, or even her entertainment of the idea -- now or ever. Not even for him. Especially not for him.

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Here she can see every mark laid in his flesh. Every wound, every scar, including the ones that she knew intimately. There had been no hope of leaving him unscathed when she had had a disaster of flesh to work with — it is a miracle he is as put together as he is.

Still, as she traced each line and gash with her eyes she wished she had been able to do better for him. Especially now in the wake of his confession she wished he did not have such a prominent reminder of that day. That damned, cursed day.

The scar she wore carried a story, too, but it was not one that caused her pain to think of. Calypso imagined that he could not catch his reflection in water without remembering and she wished, then, that she had done better. Her mother’s skill would have left him better off for certain.

How could she soothe the memories when he wore a constant reminder.

His breath on her face caused her own to hitch, catch, and then release in a sharp exhale. Her heart thudded almost painfully in her chest and there was a shift in her expression. Subtle, minute, but a shift all the same.

Calypso rushed to mask it, pulled fast on the ropes to raise the sail and hide away that brief flash of vulnerability. Anger rose to mask it - anger burned brighter than all else - and she gave him the flame he wished for. “not that, then what? I don’ know how else to help!” There was a sharpness as she rose to challenge him, all in a misguided effort to hide that brief moment when she had not been so guarded.

Perhaps if she can stoke his ire he will not question it.

Art by Rabbit | Table code by Zodiac

She may think he doesn't take notice of her subtle shifts, but Calhoun sees each one; he just rarely comments. He has taken great caution to refrain from being a part of her emotions, telling himself that it is better for her, better for them. He's quite convinced himself of the fact, but no longer does he have a tornado of vengeance to bolster him -- that wind has been let out of his sails, and now he finds himself forced to face honesty more clearly. Anger was easier. He sees it, sees the falter of her mask, a brief glimmer of vulnerability before she covers it with vehement frustration. Funny how they both cling with such determination to their façades, as if that's easier than honesty. It is, in a way, easier than letting down their guard. Her words are a battering ram against his carefully constructed walls, demanding answers, demanding he give her anything other than his unknowing. As if he knows which way the compass points, what path yet undiscovered he will journey down. Something, however, tells him that he does not wish to journey it alone. @Calypso's anger is met by a wall of impassiveness, meeting her heated reaction with an entire lack of his own. He imagines that might make her more angry. A part of him hopes it does -- the cruel and twisted part that says she should leave him behind. He's not worth it. What is it, truly, that she sees in him to make him so worthy of her loyalty? The others, he can understand. They have known Calhoun through trials and tribulations, they have seen his ability to be a capable leader and a steadfast friend. But Calypso -- Calypso has only known the dragon. His façade falters slightly, hesitating under the scrutiny of her intense glare and finding himself avoiding it; his muzzle dips to shift away from her glower, juxtaposition to her cheek. "You don't always have t' help," he says quietly, his voice possessing an earnest quality. She is always so determined to shoulder his burdens, to relieve him of his guilt, to fix him. It is not Calypso's weight to bear, despite her vehemence to mend the emotional wounds as well as she had the physical ones. It simply doesn't work that way. In the end, despite her best intentions, it only serves to leave open the paths that harbor his darkest memories -- a constant reminder of his ineptitudes.

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